Cathedral of Bones Page 14

  “While I appreciate your candor, I do hope you’re not making that accusation yourself.”

  “Trust me, I’m not foolish enough to accuse the Countess of Salisbury of misdeeds.” He smiled a crooked grin. “If I thought that was your intent I’d have kept quiet about it. But you should know this often happens, so there may be whispers.”

  She should be shocked that he was talking to his countess as an equal. On the other hand he was talking to her like he might to another man, and that warmed her. She could see how sheriffs might be tempted to appropriate funds for their own purposes. She was already out seven pounds for a funeral and more for the cost of Widow Lester’s ministrations.

  “There are many reasons I wish to take the role of sheriff. Not only can I make sure the course of justice is not perverted, but I’ll have a deeper understanding of the workings of the justice system that I can share with my son Will. He’ll be Earl of Salisbury and I want him to be well prepared for the job.”

  “Very wise, my lady. Your sense of responsibility is to be much admired.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was sincere or if he felt—as many no doubt would—that she was neglecting her family and household responsibilities. Either way, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that she fulfilled her role as sheriff to the best of her abilities.

  “May I examine the body?”

  Haughton’s exasperation was poorly hidden. “Of course, my lady.” He tugged the sheet from the corpse in a dramatic sweep that exposed the poor man’s nakedness all at once and made Ela gasp. She fought the urge to shield her eyes. She’d rarely even seen her husband completely naked, and the sight was unfamiliar and disconcerting.

  She steadied herself—without drawing a deep breath of the room’s fetid air—and moved in closer. Blood had dried around several stab wounds in his belly. Each one was a slit, as if Morse had stuck the knife in and pulled it out. “Why would he stick the knife in his belly like this once he lay on the floor. Why not just slit his throat and be done with it?”

  Morse must have slaughtered enough cows in his time and surely knew how to kill with one stroke. He was so much larger than Brice that he likely could have accomplished that without even knocking him down first.

  Haughton shrugged. “I agree, it is odd.”

  She looked at the knife, and imagined herself using it to stab him in the belly. Six times from the look of it. “Are there any wounds on his back?”

  “None. He might have lost consciousness from the blow to his head, but he died from loss of blood from these punctures. He lay in a big puddle of blood when we found him.”

  “Then I suppose it was an effective method of murder, if an unorthodox one.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Make sure the knife is carefully preserved as evidence. I don’t want it disappearing.” Ela knew that a good knife was valuable to almost anyone and likely to walk off. “Lock it up somewhere.”

  “Might I ask why?”

  “We need to discover whether the knife belongs to Morse, or whether it was in the Brice’s kitchen when he arrived.”

  “Ah. Yes.” No doubt he found this line of inquiry a waste of time. But Ela wanted to know. And the method of murder struck her as odd. A big brute like Morse was capable of killing with his fists, which was likely how his wife had died. Why had he used a knife as well?

  Ela needed to think. And to pray.

  “I’ll bid you adieu, Master Houghton. You must go home to your wife. God go with you.”

  “God’s blessings on you, my lady,” he muttered, with a nod. “See you in the morning.”

  Ela walked the short distance from the mortuary back to the castle hall, accompanied by the soldiers who’d waited for her outside. From there she climbed the stairs to her solar, where, to her surprise, Sibel stood waiting for her.

  “What are you still doing up?”

  “Stoking your fire, my lady. And I warmed the water for you to wash.”

  “You’re too thoughtful.” Ela let Sibel help her out of her gown, and gratefully washed her hands and face in the clean, warm water. “If only I could wash the stench of death from my nostrils.”

  “Nicholas has been asking for you.” Sibel sounded apologetic. “He can’t sleep.” She looked at Ela’s curtained bed. “He insisted on waiting in your bed for you.”

  Ela turned and saw the curtains part to reveal Nicholas’s curly gold head and big staring eyes. “I had a bad dream, Mama.”

  “Did you, my love?” She decided to sleep in her shift rather than change to a nightgown in front of her son. “What was it?”

  “I dreamed there was a bad man in the castle, who wanted to kill people dead.”

  De Burgh’s hawk-like face swarmed Ela’s imagination. It took her a moment to realize her son was talking about Morse.

  “He knows?” She whispered to Sibel. How? Deschamps had the tact to pull her away from her family before imparting the grim news.

  “The soldiers do natter on, my lady. I told him he’s locked up down in the dungeon and can’t do anyone any harm,” said Sibel softly.

  “Sibel’s right, my sweet. He can’t hurt anyone now.”

  “Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”

  Ela hesitated. She’d intended to spend some time at her prie-dieu before retiring, hoping for some guidance and solace in her prayers. “Just this once.” She could rise early and go to the chapel before her rounds. She’d been so busy that perhaps she was neglecting her children. Her new position was so public, and the public life of Salisbury happened right in her home, so there was no way to shield them from it.

  She bid good night to Sibel and climbed up onto the bed, into the cozy cocoon behind the curtains. Her sweet son smelled of milk and honey and she could almost imagine him a baby again, wrapped up in her arms. She lay down next to him. “This castle is the safest place in all England.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course. All of the soldiers are here to protect us, day and night.”

  “I thought they were the king’s soldiers.”

  “They are, and the king is our friend.”

  “I know he’s my cousin, or something like that.”

  “Indeed he is. And he’d never let anything happen to you.”

  “My daddy died.”

  Ela’s throat clogged and she struggled to swallow before answering. “I know, but that was different. I promise to keep you safe.”

  “Will says we’ll be sent off to war, like Daddy.”

  “Papa was a valiant knight who fought for the king.” She smoothed his hair. “He was very brave. He didn’t mind going to fight. In fact, I think he rather enjoyed it.” She stroked her son’s cheek. “And he didn’t die in battle.”

  “Is Will going to go off and fight for the king?”

  “Perhaps one day, but not yet. He’s not even a knight yet, though I believe he will be soon.”

  “Will I go off to fight?” Nicky’s worried eyes stared up at her, shining in the dark. Her sweet son was so gentle and preferred her company to that of the boisterous soldiers.

  “Maybe one day, a very long time from now. Or you might become a man of God like Bishop Poore, who spends his time leading us all in prayer.” She was under no oath to raise her sons to be knights.

  “I think I’d like that better.”

  “Perhaps you could lead us in prayer right now?”

  “Can I?”

  “If you can remember the words.”

  Ela watched with amusement and not a little pride as Nicholas scrambled out of bed and knelt on the floor. She followed suit, wincing at the cold, hard wood under her knees through her thin shift. Her gentle son said the words slowly and with so much meaning that her heart was filled with faith and hope.

  “…and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

  “Amen.” Especially that last part. She felt stalked by evil, lately. Though she also had to be careful with the temptation of pride. She prayed that her desire to be she
riff sprang purely from a need to preserve the peace and safeguard Will’s inheritance, and not from a desire to puff herself up.

  She and Nicholas climbed back under the covers, and she pulled the heavy curtains to keep out the draughts. Snuggled under the covers, with her arms around her last baby, she reveled in the fleeting sense of bliss. She was old enough and wise enough to appreciate what was good about her life and not squander these precious moments in wishing for something else.

  Ela had planned to go to the chapel first thing in the morning, but was so exhausted that she slept far later than she’d intended and was wakened by Sibel, who carried Nicholas back to his own bed before returning to dress her. Ela let Sibel ease her gown over her head, then pin her headdress together. “Let me look in the looking glass.”

  She usually avoided it as a sign of vanity, but today she wanted to take a look at the face that all the others—including Morse—would be talking to. In her mind she was still a girl of twenty with rosy cheeks and long waves of dark blonde hair tucked under her veil.

  The mirror didn’t say anything about her hair, which was hidden by her crisp white veil and wimple, but her face looked pale and pinched. The blue of her tunic deepened the blue of her eyes but also some blue hollows around them that she didn’t remember. “I look like I was awake all night.”

  “You look well rested enough to me, my lady,” said Sibel tactfully.

  “Yesterday was a difficult day. And today promises no different.” She turned away from the mirror. “Excuse my complaining. I’m fully aware of how fortunate I am. Do help keep the children busy today. I’d like them to know as little as possible about the events unfolding around us.”

  “I’m sorry there was another murder, my lady.” Sibel spoke softly, almost a whisper, while busying herself tidying the bedclothes.

  “What exactly did you hear?” Ela wished her voice didn’t sound so sharp. She hated the idea of the servants gossiping.

  “That the man who murdered his wife killed her lover as well.”

  Ela sighed. “That is how things appear.”

  “I suppose he’s done you the favor of signing his own death warrant.”

  “Indeed.” That was certainly Giles Haughton’s opinion. “But he hasn’t been tried by jury and justice yet.” She didn’t want Sibel to confirm any rumors and get the people baying for blood. The villagers treated an execution as a festive occasion. While she thirsted for justice as much as the next person, she took no delight in another man’s suffering and would prefer to see the people chastened by the awful sight.

  “Do you think he’s guilty?” Sibel couldn’t hide her curiosity.

  “It does seem likely under the circumstances, but it’s not for me to judge. It’s my duty to gather the evidence and any witnesses to the event or the characters of the people involved, and to present the persons and evidence to the court of justice.”

  “But surely you have an opinion.” Sibel looked up from shaking out the bed curtains.

  Ela didn’t know what to think. She’d trusted her instincts and failed to arrest Morse yesterday, and now another man was dead.

  But why would a seasoned cowman with a knife not slit his rival’s throat, but instead poke him in the belly with it like an angry child?

  “Perhaps I do have an opinion, but for now that is between me and God.” Sibel was an intelligent woman with gifts that could likely have taken her far beyond Ela’s hall and bedchamber if her circumstances had permitted. Ela considered herself grateful to benefit from them daily. “Pray for justice, Sibel. Because that’s my only goal in this difficult situation.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Sibel nodded, chastened. “And I’ll try to keep the children out of it. It’s hard the way the soldiers gossip among themselves in the hall.”

  “I’ll have a word with Deschamps about that. Please have him summoned to the hall.”

  With that she swept out on her usual rounds, and Sibel hurried off to stir the chain of command that would summon Deschamps.

  Ela’s nerves remained on edge during her uncharacteristically late inspection of the castle and grounds. Wherever she went, people seemed to still their conversation and busy themselves in their work as if afraid to look at her. She tried to conduct herself as efficiently as usual, but it was hard not to be distracted by the pervasive air of unrest.

  When she returned to the hall Deschamps was seated at the table, breakfasting near the fire. He rose as she approached, and she motioned for him to sit and continue. “God go with you, Master Deschamps.”

  “And with you, my lady, as I trust he always does.”

  She sat opposite him, and a servant brought her a plate of freshly baked bread accompanied by dried fruit and cheese, her preferred breakfast at this time of year. A cup of watered wine slaked her thirst.

  Ela whispered that she’d prefer for the soldiers to keep any gossip about the murder outside the hall and grounds and far from the ears of the children.

  “I’ll do my best, my lady, but short of putting a stopper in their mouths it’s hard to prevent them talking. We should congratulate ourselves there is peace and prosperity enough that they’re here and not out fighting.”

  Ela bristled at his lack of deference. “I prefer to save congratulations for something specific. Speaking of which, has the coroner spoken to Morse yet?”

  “Not yet, my lady. He’s not come here this morning.”

  Probably sleeping in, like her. “Please summon him and at least one juror, and we can interview Morse together. It’s a certainty that he’ll be tried for his life now. The more official witnesses to each interview, the better.”

  “Yes, my lady. Shall I attend the interview?”

  “Please do.” She wanted Deschamps on her side, not against it. Although he’d done nothing to arouse her suspicions, she knew he was a man of pride and ambition who was quite capable of trying to clamber over others on his way to whatever he perceived as success. “Is there word on whether Morse has confessed to the crimes?”

  “He has not. He maintains his innocence.” A servant refilled Deschamps’s cup of small ale from a pewter jug. “He was fretting over his cows this morning.”

  “And where are his cows?”

  “They are currently being driven to your manor at Marshwood.”

  Ela paused, bread halfway to her mouth. “Why? Why not install a herdsman at his farm and drive the cows to their usual dairy until justice is served and his property appropriately disposed of?” Once again she could feel the finger of accusation pointing at her.

  “Then we run the risk of occupying his property illegally and incurring a suit from his heirs.”

  “What heirs?”

  “I don’t know, my lady, but no one will argue that his cows need to be milked and fed, and that they will be safe and cared for at your manor.”

  “Is there hay and grazing enough for them there? The grass has barely started to grow.” She didn’t much like the idea of paying for their feed before handing them back to an heir. Would she be entitled to recompense, perhaps in the form of the best cow?

  Thinking this way she could see how a sheriff might easily be accused of enriching himself at another’s expense.

  “I’ll visit the manor today myself, my lady, and report back to you.”

  “There’s no need for you to remove yourself from your duties. I’ll follow up with the steward.” No doubt this was his idea. Deschamps’s job was to manage the garrison, not the farms. “I don’t much like the idea of the accused’s cattle mingling with mine.”

  Deschamps’s mouth tilted. “Afraid they will spread moral turpitude?”

  “I’m more concerned about foot rot,” she said dryly. “But please do make inquiries into Morse’s next of kin.”

  As she finished her breakfast, the coroner arrived, along with Stephen Hale, the cordwainer, who lived next door to him and was no doubt the most convenient juror to rouse as another witness.

  “Hail, gentlemen, will you join us to brea
k your fast?” Perhaps she was procrastinating. The prospect of heading down to the dungeons to meet Morse chilled her blood.

  “Thanks, but nay, my lady,” said Haughton, who looked a lot brighter after a night of sleep. Or maybe his nose and cheeks were just red from the cold. “My wife has fed me already.”

  “Mine too,” said Hale. “But thank you for your kindness.”

  Ela rose, inhaling deeply. “Then we can attend to business. As you know, Morse was brought in late last night after John Brice was found bludgeoned and stabbed in his kitchen.” She walked out of the great hall and down the corridor that led to the dungeons. The dungeons weren’t directly underneath the great hall, thank goodness, but were only accessible through a door in the floor and a ladder heading down into the bowels of the castle.

  One sentry stood at the top and one at the bottom of the ladder. Ela descended as gracefully as her skirts would allow and the big, grumpy jailer—who wouldn’t be grumpy spending his days down here in the dark?—unlocked the heavy wood door that led into the inner gaol where prisoners were kept chained to the walls.

  Ela felt her body tense as they passed through the door. There were two other prisoners down here awaiting the assizes, but her eyes immediately fixed on Morse. There was one tiny slit of a window high in the wall, at least fifteen feet above the floor, but it let in enough light to illuminate his massive form in the far corner.

  He stirred when he saw them and struggled to his feet with apparent difficulty. She wondered if he’d sustained injuries resisting the soldiers during his arrest or while being chained. Her eyes hadn’t adjusted to the light well enough to see bruises.

  Ela found herself shrinking back, even though she knew he was chained to the wall and couldn’t reach her. Silence stretched out, punctuated by a steady drip, drip, drip, somewhere overhead, and she realized everyone was waiting for her to speak first.